Hit Me Harder Now
by triphazard
Summary: Umm... Rentfic, my first. Title from Matt Caplan's song Wither. Slightly mobid, very angsty PLEASE READ! Please?**CHAPTER 11 **
1. Alone and Lonely

Disclaimer: like usual, in any Rentfic, all characters belong to Jonathan Larson

Authors Note: Me first Rentfic… and its not nearly as good as everyone elses. I'm sorry if everyone thinks that everything I write is depressing and morbid. I haven't written anything when I was hyper in a while… I shall have to do that some time… yeah… and sorry it's a short chapter. SO! On with the STORY! Oh yeah… ANGEL LIVES! 

Chapter 1: Alone and Lonely

            Mark stared blankly at the ceiling, slowly running the events of the day through his head. Only slowly, because, really, not much had happened. It had been an annoyingly normal day. He wished something would happen, just something. No one else noticed, as they all had their lovers, Roger and Mimi, Joanne and Maureen, Collins and Angel.  Mostly, he spent his days alone in the park filming people as they walked by, making up stories about them. Occasionally, he got strange looks from passing tourists, but usually, everyone ignored him.

Everyone ignored him. Even his friends. Roger was never in the loft anymore, and the others never stopped to visit.  He had faced the fact a long time ago. He was alone and lonely.


	2. Cover-up

Disclaimer: they aren't mine!!!!!! *sniffle*

Authors Note: The chapters will get longer… reviews please!! 

Chapter 2: Cover-up

            Mark was yanked from his restless sleep to the sound of the phone ringing. He rolled over, thinking he was still asleep because the phone never rang anymore. But it kept ringing, so Mark grabbed his glasses off of his cluttered floor and stumbled out to answer the phone.

            "Hello?" he said groggily.

            "Mark? Hey! It's Roger." 

            "Hey. Haven't seen you around much lately," Mark replied, a little more coldly than he meant to.

            "I've been with Mimi, Mark. She's my girlfriend." Roger sounded a bit dejected at the tone of his friend's voice. Mark softened a little at hearing the dejectedness.

            "I know, Rog. It's just that I really haven't really seen much of anyone lately." Mark heard muttering that sounded something like,

            "Well, if you didn't hide up in there with your camera, you'd see us a lot more."

            "What?" Mark asked, his coldness returning.

            "Uhh… nothing. Hey, why don't you come out, and come to the Life for dinner with us?" Mark pondered this. If he went, he could see all of them, have fun like he used to. But he would have to put up with Maureen and Joanne fighting, and being asked how he was doing. His eyes flickered to his wrist. Maybe he could avoid any suspicion.

            "Sure. When?" he asked.

            "Uh… is 8 good?"

            "Yeah…" Mark answered, and then added quietly as an afterthought, "It's not like I'm doing anything else. See ya then," and hung up the phone. He opened the window of the loft to check the temperature. A typical November city day. Cold enough for a sweater, thank god. He glanced at his wrists again. He really didn't want them asking about it. Not that they would care or anything, but just to be safe. He was in no mood to have to explain himself, to have his friends worrying about him. He didn't need help.

            He walked to the bathroom to take a shower and stepped in a puddle of yesterday's blood. 

            Shit, He thought, I gotta clean that up. He cleaned it up, took a shower, and searched the rest of the loft for anymore of his blood. That would be a little too obvious…

            Mark left the loft at 7:30, not wanting them to worry because he was late. He had never been one to be late.

            "Stop it!" he told himself, "Stop worrying so much. They won't notice."


	3. Any Other Night

Disclaimer: Guess what I'm gonna say? No, they aren't mine. How EVER did you guess? Lyrics to the first song are from Matt Caplan's song "Wither" but the second one is all MINE! (that's why it sucks)

A/N: I'm not sure where this is going yet. I don't know how it's going to end, but I can't remember a story I've written with a thoroughly happy ending. So don't expect a party. Had a bit of writer's block, but I got it done… YAY for me! So… pleeeease review!!!!!

Chapter 3

Mark's POV

            I fiddled with the end of my scarf, waiting for the others. I loved this scarf, and no matter how much I wanted to forget the past, I couldn't throw out my scarf. April had made it for me one Christmas, one Christmas before Roger got her started, before Roger got started.  I smiled a little. I remembered then… My smiled faded as I thought about the events that had ensued. Roger and April start doing smack. Yeah, it took me a while to notice, it was the track marks that gave it away, the fact that everything of value (which wasn't much) from the loft, mood swings, everything. April's suicide, AIDS, Roger's withdrawal, meeting Mimi, Roger moving out… 

            "Mark! Hey!" said Roger's voice from down the street. I turned on my camera and focused on the two figures walking towards me. 

            "November 10, 7:53 PM Eastern standard time. Here come my "friends" for a long night of laughter and fake merriment." I turned off the camera. I don't know why I always said date when I started filming. It had just always seemed right.

            "Hey Mark!" said Mimi, stopping in front of me, her hand in Roger's pocket.  She looked very happy, content, almost carefree. I was like that once, when Roger and I first met when he moved into the loft. That was a long time ago…

            "Hey Mimi, hey Roger." I said, faking a smile. 

            "I see you brought your little friend with you," Roger joked, indicating the camera. I nodded.

            "Have you ever known me _not_ to bring it?" Mimi smiled and leaned her head on Roger's shoulder.

            "Marky!" I heard from down the street. I zoomed in, though I knew who it was already. Maureen, Joanne, Collins and Angel were approaching. I didn't want Maureen to call me Marky.  She only called me that either when she was totally drunk, or looking forward to be. And tonight was not a night I wanted to spend with a drunk Maureen.  I greeted everyone normally, capturing it all on film, making sure I acted like the Mark they thought I was. Or the Mark I wanted to be, take your pick.

            We entered the Life Café, as usual, sat at our usual table, ordered our usual food, and talked, as usual, about nothing in particular. We'd had some good times in this café… Like that one time, 2 years ago, at Christmas. We had a party here after Maureen's protest. Back when Mimi and Roger had just met, we all laughed and joked, and wore our hearts on our sleeves. We had nothing to hide.

            "…And I hear Roger's gotta gig?" Collins was saying. Roger flashed his ever-popular grin and replied,

            "Yeah… Saturday night at some bar on Avenue B. Don't know what I'm gonna play yet…" I stopped listening there, thinking about all of our times at those bars. Damn, I was doing a lot of reminiscing tonight. 

            "Mark…Hello?" Oh shit… they were talking to me.

            "Sorry, spaced out a little there. The loft's a little cold, haven't been sleeping well." Actually, I kind of liked the cold, and that sure as hell wasn't what was keeping me from sleeping. Roger nodded and continued.

            "As I was saying, Mark, I was wondering if you'd listen to my tape and tell me which songs I should play Saturday." He handed me a tape, which I took and pocketed. Roger Davis was asking ME for input? I sputtered.

            "Uh...yeah…s-s-sure. I-I…"

            "What's wrong? Why are you stuttering so much?" Roger looked a little worried. To my surprise, the anger that had been building for the past few months and hiding so well exploded.

            "Because I've known you for 7 years, helped you through all your fucking hard times and never got as much as a thank you! I was there when your father died, and what did I do? I paid for your fucking train ticket and went with you to his funeral! I was there when April died, and what did I do? I went with you to the hospital whenever you asked, no matter what plans I had that day, I let you cry all over me, I paid for your fucking REHAB! And I lived for a month on Captain Crunch because of it! Every single thing that's happened to you in the past 7 years, I was there, whether you wanted me to be or not! Never a thank you, a hug, even acknowledgement. And now you want my input, after you've moved out of the lot and you all left me alone with my fucking camera, assuming that I didn't mind. Maybe you were wrong!" Tears were pouring down my cheeks as I ran out of the restaurant down the street to the loft, not aware that I still had Roger's tape.  I stomped into the loft, howling in pain and frustration. I curled up on my so-called couch and cried myself to a restless sleep.

            I woke a few hours later and looked at my watch. 3 AM. No way I was going to get back to sleep now. So I stood up and started pacing. That was when I realized I still had the tape. Maybe I should just give it a listen. I ventured into Roger's old room in search of his tape player, which I found in the closet. I scanned trough a couple tracks I'd heard before, like "Your Eyes." After a few minutes of scanning, I heard something that caught my attention slightly.

Hit me harder now, make believe my face is numb  
I can't feel, but I can sense you in the air  
Now lean in farther now, make believe you're not afraid  
I can't speak, but I can whisper in your ear  
Oh, wishing I was there  
Wishing I could bite the hand that feeds me the shiver and the stare  
Oh, wishing I was there  
Wishing I could hold the ground that spins around and leaves me unaware

            But the song following caught my attention even more. Roger's gruff voice introduced the song as "Shiver."

Pretended I was famous

Pretended I couldn't lose

You saw right through me

You were the friend I couldn't lose

The things we learn

We learn to late

Our foolish actions

Make way for our hate

And it makes me shiver

The fact that I could've died

And it makes me wonder

Why you put up with my lies

By the end, I was bawling again, and even though it was still about three in the morning, I decided to call Roger. He was just downstairs. Nah, he wouldn't answer, he'd just screen, and after my outburst, he wouldn't answer. But I had to tell him now, while I still felt that way, before the anger took control again.

            I found my way down to the second floor of the building somehow and pounded on Roger and Mimi's door. A very groggy and irritated looking Roger answered the door.

            "Mark? What're you doing here?" he noticed that I was still crying, "What's wrong?" I wanted to confess to him right there. He'd been through the same thing, hadn't he? No, now's not the time. I handed him the tape and managed to choke out,

            "I-I listened to it. The last song, play the last song." Mimi appeared at the door and looked curiously at me, and then at Roger, who pulled me inside and sat me on the couch. Mimi ran to the kitchen and made me some tea.

            "You wanna talk, Mark?" Roger asked cautiously. I nodded hesitantly, and Roger relaxed a little.

            "I'm sorry." I whispered.

            "No, man, I'm sorry." He replied.


	4. We Cannot Ignore

Disclaimer: No, not mine. *sniffle* I wish… except Liz. Liz is mine. Except for her glasses. 

A/N: DIE, evil writer's block, DIE! This is NOT a M/R slash, I swear. It's not going to be, no matter how much I like M/R slashes… *hides* the Fluffiness Monster is after me!! I can't get away from the fluffiness! Sorry for the short chapter… I apologize for this chapter. I thoroughly dislike it. With a passion. It sucks… It's a product of boredom and writer's block, not a good combo.

Chapter 4: We Cannot Ignore

            Mark sat patiently on the dilapidated plaid couch, staring at the door, waiting for Roger's daily visit. A month. It'd been a month. It was Christmas Eve, and Hanukkah had come and gone. His friends had once again forgotten he was Jewish, but they'd never remembered in the first place, even when they'd all lived together and Mark's mom would call and leave "Happy Hanukkah" messages. Not that Mark cared which holiday they celebrated, he wasn't expecting any presents anyway. He had gotten everyone else presents though. A month. A month since he'd felt entirely hopeless. A month since he'd last cut. His eyes shifted to his arm and he pulled up the sleeve of his sweater. Fine white lines found their way down his hand, fading more everyday, but never leaving. He'd told Roger. Roger had confiscated his razor blades. Mark still felt like he needed to sometimes, usually at least once a day. It was hard at first, so fucking hard. But his pain had lessened a little, day by day. He returned his gaze to the door. _Roger's late!_ Mark thought, _He must have forgotten. Or he's not coming. _At that moment, the door opened and Roger paraded in, wearing one of his rare, yet infamous Cheshire cat grins that only occurred when he was plotting something.

            "Hey, Rog. Why're you grinning like that?" Mark asked suspiciously.

            "You'll see." Roger nodded wisely, "Whatcha got to eat?" Mark laughed bitterly. 

            "Food? Are you kidding? All I've got is some Ramen and some non-name brand Captain Crunch-like cereal. Why?" At this point glanced vaguely around the room. Or really, directly at the door. 

            "No reason, just hungry." He glanced at the door again, "It's Christmas, you know."

            "I know. Even though I don't celebrate it," Mark replied. 

            "Oh…Yeah…I…I knew that." The grin faded a little.

            "That's alright… I have to celebrate some holiday. It might as well be Christmas. Roger began walking towards the door.

            "I got you a present." He said as the door burst open to reveal Collins, Angel, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, Benny, and who was the other girl? Everyone greeted him with hugs, and a kiss from Maureen, which resulted a glare from Joanne. Collins introduced the new girl.

            "Mark, this is a friend of mine from MIT, Liz. Liz, this is my friend and former roommate, Mark Cohen." Collins grinned at Mark, and Mark looked at the girl in front of him. 

            "Hey! You've got my glasses!" He said to her and grinned. She grinned back, and they began an evening of general merriment and large amounts of alcohol that Collins "borrowed" from the Food Emporium. 


	5. Couldn't Help Remembering

Disclaimer: All characters are Jonathan Larson's, as always, except Liz. Sesame Street isn't mine either. And neither is the "Hey, Hey Shiksa goddess" line. So sue me. All I have is some Ramen and dry erase board markers and some broken clarinet reeds.

A/N: This is just a happy fluffy filler chapter to make you think that everything is going to work out. But it doesn't work that way in the world of Rentfic. *grin* I'll say no more. Cap'n Crunchesque is a word. So there. Heh heh… Anthony Rapp irony… *grin* Sorry that the end of this chapter sucks. I just couldn't end it well. Bah. I hate endings.

Chapter 5

Mark's POV

            Blinding light reflected off of the snow on the ground and found it's way to my face. I groaned and rolled over. From outside my room, I could hear the sound of our recently acquired television. I stood up and stumbled groggily out into the living room. Well, I'm not sure you could call it a living room, but that doesn't matter. Liz was sitting on our lovely, decrepit sofa, watching Sesame Street.       

            "Good morning, Mark" She smiled at me. I grinned and put on my glasses.

            "Hey, hey, Shiksa goddess!" I replied and plopped down on the couch next to her, "You know, I've always wondered whether Elmo's relationship with his fish and his furniture is purely platonic or if…" Liz pushed me over, playfully.

            "I shouldn't let you get up this early! You think too much…" I grinned and stood up.

            "What's for breakfast?" I whined. Liz laughed at me and said,

            "Nothing… We ate it all." She turned off the TV just as Big Bird was introducing the Spanish word of the day. "Let's go to the store. How much money have we got?" She grabbed her wallet off of the "table" and retrieved mine from the hiding place in my room, which happened to be on the floor with the rest of my junk. It's a pretty good hiding place, if you ask me. 

            "Thirty dollars. Yay! We're rich! I wonder if we could buy Microsoft?" I asked.

            "Then we'd be the sell-outs of the century! Alright!" Liz replied, as I grabbed our coats and we left the loft. We wandered down the cold streets, cracking jokes and generally having a good time. Had it really only been three weeks since I'd first met her? It seemed like forever.

            "So, okay, do we want real Cap'n Crunch or Cap'n Crunchesque cereal? Actually, the better question is, which can we afford?" She yelled at me from across the small store. The other customers stared in her direction with a look of disbelief and confusion on their faces. They were probably thinking, "They can't afford Cap'n Crunch?!?" 

            "Let's celebrate our "richness" and buy the real stuff this time!" I yelled back at her, "And get some milk while you're over there. I haven't had any milk in a while. And bread. And tea. And a heater. And a…" The store manager cut in.

            "Sir, could you please keep your voice down? Our customers…" Just to spite him, I replied, loudly,

            "WHAT? Sorry, couldn't hear you!"

            "I said sir, could you please keep your voice down. Our customers…"

            "I'm a customer too." 

            "Yes, but…"

            "Am I not a good enough customer?"

            "No, sir, that's not at all what I meant. I was just-"

            "And am I discriminated against if I have a hearing problem?" Liz was doubled over laughing, attracting the attention of the customers, but not Mr. Our Customers… 

            "No no, sir. I wasn't aware that…"

            "Ahhh… Shaddup and ring up our groceries." And I handed him our groceries.

            "Yes, sir."

            Liz was still laughing when we left the store. 

            "A hearing problem, eh?" she asked.

            "What? Come again, dearie?" She smacked me playfully on the arm. We arrived back at the loft, put our groceries away, and I finally had breakfast.

            "Whatcha wanna do today?" I asked between spoonfuls of Cap'n Crunch. She shrugged.

            "I got a little work on my book to do, maybe the group could go out tonight." That made me think of Mimi and laugh. I remembered Roger telling me about Mimi's "Out Tonight" song and the outfit she'd been wearing. No wait, I saw that outfit later that night. I just couldn't see Liz doing any of it. I settled down on the couch to watch some TV. There was nothing on except some movie called _Adventures in Babysitting_ with some guy named Anthony Rapp. It was a 1987 film. I wasn't particularly fond of  80's films, but oh well. Liz eventually settled down on the couch next to me and said,

            "Who's the guy playing Darrel?"

            "Some guy named Anthony Rapp. Why?"

            "He looks like those pictures of you when you were like, fifteen or sixteen."

            "You know, he sort of does. Wow… I look like a movie star!" Liz kissed me and I can't remember anything that really went on after that.


	6. Run Away

Disclaimer: Nope. I don't own Mark or anyone except Liz. I don't even own Canada. Plus Ducky gave me a bit of help on the plot. (Though my fingers think differently. It's National Typo Day!)

A/N: I really like POV changes (for prime examples of this strange affinity, check out …And Suddenly the World Tasted Like Fruit Loops (shameless self-promotion. I know) which I am currently working *cough* very *cough* hard *cough* on) don't I? I'm laughing at my own corny-ness, which I won't share with you. Repeating myself is so much fun! Thanks again to Ducky for her bit (ok, A LOT! *grovel*) of help with the plot. So the ending didn't quite turn out right, but at least its done. I can move on. Or go to bed, you choose. 

Chapter 6: Run Away

Liz's POV

            Chattering voices came from the room we affectionately referred to as the "living room" when I woke up. Mark's side of the bed was empty, and it was three in the morning. I tried to identify the voices. It sounded like Roger, Collins, and Maureen. What were they doing here at this hour? I staggered out to the living room to find it completely empty, save for Mark and his projector. The voices were coming from a film playing on the blank white wall. Mark sat, staring at the wall, with clumps of filmstrips in his shaking hands. Roger paraded across the wall in Maureen's hat and coat, batting his eyes. Maureen ran after him, screaming at him to "Give her the fucking coat!" Collins entered, and the scene faded. The next shot was of a closed bathroom door, and the picture was shaking violently. An unseen hand opened the bathroom door. A flash of red, the camera fell, and I heard a scream. Next was Roger, sobbing and yelling at Mark to turn off the camera for once, that he didn't want this on film. 

            "Mark." I said, "Mark. Hi. What're you doing?" He spun around, surprised. The look of shock quickly turned from anger, to fear, to sadness and back to shock again.  He turned off the projector, which was now showing Roger in the corner of a blank white room with his head on his knees and huge scars covering both of his arms. 

            "How long were you watching?" He asked, his voice shaking almost as much as his hands.

            "Not long. What are you doing? Its 3 AM! And what…" he cut me off, probably because he knew I was going to ask about the bloody bathroom.

            "I… I was just watching some old films, that's all. I…uh…couldn't sleep." 

            "Sure, Mark. What's wrong? And why are you shaking so much?" He was lying, I could tell. His face clearly said, "I'm lying! Catch me!" 

            "I…nothing's wrong. Just insomnia. Go back to sleep. I think I need to go on a walk." He turned away and began to collect all the filmstrips on the floor. 

            "Alright, but promise we'll talk later?" I said, hoping I wouldn't regret it. Returning to our room, I lay back down and eventually drifted back to sleep.

Mark's POV

            How could I be doing this to her? All she had done was love me. But, yes, that was the problem. I wasn't used to being loved, only loving. Loving to the point of obsession. My old films showed that. Laughter, fun, action, I was never involved. I was obsessed with filming. My camera loved me. Until six months ago, I thought that was enough. And then I thought I needed more, love from something besides an inanimate object. I was wrong though. I don't need love, and love doesn't need me. Out for a walk, I'd said, a really long walk that might just involve a bus or two. A bus to Canada, the land of maple trees. Santa Fe is so cliché. Roger already tried that. Me and my camera. That's all I need, I hope.

Liz's POV

_Dear Liz,_

_I'm so sorry to do this to you. All you did was love me, and it's all my fault. I promised we'd talk later so I'll call you as soon as I get to a phone._

_-Mark_

            Tears dripped onto the yellow paper that the note was written on. He was right, I hadn't done anything but love him. But I had the feeling that loving him was causing the problems. The projector was still sitting where Mark had left it last night, and there were several filmstrips laying on top of it that he'd forgotten to put away. _What the hell, _I thought, _might as well watch them._ The first was of Roger packing for Santa Fe (or at least, that's what I thought it was). Not very exciting, as it seemed neither of them were speaking to each other. The next was a game of tackle football with Mimi, Roger, Maureen and Joanne. The third was at the bottom of the stack and had a post-it note attached to it that said,

_Liz,_

_This song is for you. Roger wrote it a few years ago. I thought it fit the situation well._

_-Mark_

A guitar and a musician appeared on the wall and began to sing:

_Open road,_

_why does love erode? _

_Get away, you can't stay away! _

_Look away from _

_the mirror now - look straight out ahead, that's how.  _

_But how can you let her go? _

_Let her go.  _

_No, you can't save the world, better save your heart.  _

_Start to close the door, _

_look for open road.  _

_Open road, why can't I crack loves code? _

_Time to fly, no time to say goodbye. _

_Goodbye! _

_Just try to forget her face, _

_just get yourself in the race._

There was more, I'm sure, but I couldn't hear it over my sobs. Where had he gone? When would he come back? Would he come back?

Mark's POV

O Canada, O Canada… Here I come. I've got "Open Road" stuck in my head, and I'm cursing Roger for writing it. What's Liz going to tell everyone else? Why can't I just stop thinking about Liz? I just need my camera.

Me and my camera. My camera and me. My camera. I drift off to sleep on the quiet bus. Goodbye.


	7. Observance and Discovery

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns Rent and all of its characters. I, however, have the privilege to own all the unnamed characters and Ralph Wellerstein, Mathieu. Yay?

A/N: Now I'm changing tenses. Greeeeeeeeaaaaat. Haha… French… yeah. Thanks to Kris again for the names (Mathieu and Ralph Wellerstein.) This is a strange chapter. Yeah… ok. **Chapter 7, revised** because I needed to change the ending do chapter 8 will work. No, I won't tell you!

Chapter 7: Observance and Discovery

            Here I sit, on a cold, half-empty bus to Quebec. I'm doing the only thing I can do at least halfway decently, filming. The red bulb shines faintly, competing with the sunlight shining through my window.

            "January 16, 3:03 PM, Eastern Standard Time. On a bus to a town of separatists who speak a language I can't understand. Why?" I flick off the power switch. Why am I going? Because I'm a coward, a fucking coward. I'm afraid of being loved. Afraid someone might just love me and I won't be alone anymore. Alone. That's what I've grown used to. Humans adapt to their surroundings, no matter how awful they are. I didn't mind being alone as much as I thought I did. And then suddenly, Christmas Eve, it always seems to be on Christmas, everything flipped. I wasn't alone anymore, and I was enjoying it, to a certain extent.

            I'm such a coward! And what had I yelled at Roger for when he left? Escaping his pain. Practice what you preach, Mark. I'm doing exactly the same thing, running from someone who loves me. All because I haven't re-adapted. 

            There's snow falling outside. We've reached the Canadian border, no maple trees yet, but a few customs officials in parkas who want to see my passport. I dig it out of the small suitcase sitting at my feet and hand it to the officials who say something in French. I turn my camera on again as the officials walk down the aisle of the bus. 

            "January 16, 7 PM, eastern standard time." I film the snow, the lack of maple trees, the other people on the bus, each with their own story. Some are chatting quietly in Franglish, some are sleeping; some are just staring aimlessly into space. To my camera, I wonder how may of them are communists. The officials leave the bus, and we continue across the border. Some of the occupants of the bus seem to relax a little as we leave the U.S. I notice a little boy, maybe six or seven years old staring at me with awe.

            "Qu'est-ce que tu fait, monsieur?" he asks me. I shrug and smile uncomfortably.

            "Uh… Je.ne…parlez? no… parle pas… Français" Hopefully he'll catch my accent. He giggles and repeats himself in heavily accented English. I can tell he's having trouble trying to figure out what to say. 

            "What are you doing, mister?"

            "I'm filming things." I reply.

            "Qu'est-ce que…eh…what're you filming?" The lady sitting next to him, presumably his mother, looks up at me and smiles. 

            "I'm filming the things I see. Freedom, truth, beauty, love." He laughs and says,

            "You're silly, mister. You can't see that stuff." He comes over and sits next to me.

            "Sure you can. What's your name?"

            "Mathieu. And I'm SEVEN!" He holds up seven fingers to illustrate his point.

            "I'm Mark, and I'm 23." I try to hold up 23 fingers, and that makes him laugh. "You can see anything, you just have to look at in the right way. It's all in the way you see stuff." I point to the toy dinosaur he's holding, "who's that?"

            "Ralph Wellerstein. He's my bestest friend!" I laugh.

            "What's his story?" Mathieu's eyes almost glow with excitement.

            "Well, he was lonely, and I found him in a gutter, and he needed a friend so I said I'd be his friend. And he told me how he got in the gutter. His mum was teaching him how to fly and he fell and…" he starts babbling in Franglish, explaining the story with his hands. I film. 

            "What's your story?" he asks suddenly, startling me. No one has ever asked me that. Ever.

            "What?" I reply, just to make sure I heard him right.

            "What's your story? Why are you going to Canada? You don't even speak the right language!" I tell him my story, omitting about half of it, as I didn't think his mother would be too terribly happy if I told him about suicide and drugs. I tell him about Roger, April, Maureen and Collins. Everything that's happened, shortened and censored, he'll find out about that stuff soon enough. I tell him about Liz, and reach the end of the story.

            "You should go back to her. I see it!"

            "See what?" His mom asks

            "Love. I see love."

I knock on the door of the loft 28 hours later. Please, please forgive me, Liz, please. There's no answer. I knock again, louder. This time, I hear footsteps coming to the door. The door swings open and Liz stands in the doorway. She's obviously been crying.

            "Mark?" She hugs me and pulls me inside. I see the back of a familiar head.

            "What's wrong? Why's Roger here?" She grabs my arm gently. 

            "Get some sleep. A lot happens in 48 hours."


	8. Close Up Tight

Disclaimer: is this really necessary anymore? We've already established in the past 7 chapters that I don't own these poor characters that I so very much love to torture. Heh heh…  But Liz is still mine (Yeah, why wouldn't she be? I don't generally sell characters.)

A/N: I was going to put this off a little longer, just to see how many people would die of suspense, but oh well. I'm evil, oh so very evil. Morbid-ness. Yes, yes, yes. 

Chapter 8: Close Up Tight

             I barely slept that night. What had happened? Maybe Roger and Liz had…but then I felt guilty for not trusting me best friend or my girlfriend. And Roger still had Mimi. Didn't he? He hadn't flinched when I walked past him and said hello. He hadn't been like this since April's suicide.

            I woke early the next morning to find Roger sitting in exactly the same position he'd been in the night before. Liz was in the kitchen, making coffee for Roger and tea for us. She poured me a bowl of last week's Cap'n Crunch. No one was talking. My mind was racing filled with the various things that could have happened, but none were the least bit logical. I was beginning to wish I'd stayed in Canada, where I wouldn't have to deal with all of this.

            "Roger." Liz said gently. Roger didn't even flinch. Liz tried to hand him his coffee, but he wouldn't take it, so she sat it down on the floor at his feet, next to his guitar. He didn't react, nor did he react to me sitting down next to him with my cup of tea.

            "Roger. What's wrong? What happened?" I asked him quietly.

            "Asshole. You asshole." Well, that wasn't exactly what I'd expected, but I least he said something. I looked at Liz, and she shook her head sadly and beckoned me to come with her.

            "Let's go for a walk." She whispered to me. I nodded, took her hand, and thought, _this can't be good._

            We walked down Avenue A towards the park in an uneasy silence. Upon reaching our destination, we sat on the swings, and Liz twisted hers around to face me.

            "Mimi's dead." The way she said it, short and abrupt, felt like she'd just stabbed me with the knives I hid from Roger a long time ago, and began to use for my own purpose.

            "WHAT?" 

            "She died a few hours after she found out you left. Roger thinks that's what killed her, though it was probably the cold she had." Words scrambled around my head trying to form a coherent thought.

            "But…she…why…what…NO!" Liz pulled me into a tight hug and kissed me. The grim, terrified expression on her face was only half of what I felt. I knew she was fairly close with Mimi, but she hadn't known her nearly as long as I had. And then a thought struck me.

            "Oh my god. Roger. Oh shit." I sprinted off down the street with Liz trailing behind me. Why had we left him alone in the loft? I'd forgotten that he had taken all my knives, razors, and other sharp objects back in November. He still had them. Why hadn't I thought of that before? I dashed up the four flights of stairs to the loft and threw open the door, knowing exactly what I was going to find, but hoping I was wrong.

            Roger was still sitting on the couch, but there was something that told me he wasn't just sitting there. I ran over to him and almost fainted. A razor lay on the floor in an ever-growing puddle of blood, but he was still alive, he was twitching, and he was watching the blood pour out of him arms. All common sense left, I raced to the bathroom and grabbed every towel I could find and ran back to Roger. Liz had arrived, out of breath and all I could manage to say to her was,

            "9…1…1! Please!" I continued to wrap Roger's arms in the two towels to slow the blood flow a bit. I assume he had passed out by this time. I managed to get his arms wrapped up, and now the ambulance just had to get there. My hands were stained with his blood.

            "MARK!" Liz shouted and pointed to my hands. His blood. Oh shit. 

            Twenty minutes later, my hands had been thoroughly washed, and Liz and I were sitting in the back of an ambulance with a half-dead Roger and an EMT who was a dimwit. He kept assuring us that he dealt with things like this all the time, though he did mention it was his second day actually "doing work in a real ambulance." 

            We reached the hospital, and Roger was rushed to the emergency room and we were ushered to the cafeteria and given cups of lukewarm mint tea. My whole body was shaking and Liz kept poking holes in the Styrofoam cup. Eventually, we made our way back to the ER waiting room and did the only thing we could do. Wait.

We waited for hours. Maureen, Joanne, Collins, and Angel showed up eventually, but none of them said a word. Finally, after what seemed like days, a nurse came out and asked for "the family of Roger Davis." The six of us grimly stood up and followed the nurse down the hall to Roger's room, half listening to her explain that Roger would be ok eventually but he needed to go to rehab, therapy, blah, blah, blah. She let us into the tiny grey room where Roger lay half asleep, half alive on a bed. She wished us luck and left the room.

            "MIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIII!" came a cry from Roger. I grabbed Liz's hand and winced. It didn't sound like Roger at all. He sounded like some big animal that had been hunted and shot, and was crying out in pain as he held on to his life. "MIIIIMIIII!" he screamed again. Maureen sobbed. The nurse dragged us out of the room again and informed us again that he'd live, and we were sent back to the cafeteria. As we disappeared down the hall, I could still hear the cries from his room.

            "MIMIIII! MIIIIMI! MIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIII!"


	9. Blacken

Disclaimer: *sob* No! They aren't mine! I admit! Uhh… right. I'm ok. And the lyrics are from Swim's song "Time Dilutes The Past"

A/N: Phew! After almost two months, chapter nine is FINALLY finished, thanks to lots of help from Kris! Sorry for the lack of updates, don't give up hope!

Chapter 9: Blacken

            Liz eventually convinced me to go back to the loft, along with everyone else.  Upon arriving, the six of us stood awkwardly in the kitchen. Though thoroughly exhausted, we couldn't sit on the blood-soaked sofa, nor could any of us face the flood waiting for us. I slid down to the floor and hugged my knees, and the others eventually followed suit. A couple lines from one of Roger's lesser-appreciated songs were on repeat in my head. 

Just remember that time dilutes the past  
Think on this one  
Time dilutes his past

Time dilutes his past. Time dilutes everyone's past. I listened to my watch tick for hours before the phone rang. We all looked up at each other and thought the same thing. Who was going to brave the room? The phone rang again. Collins squeezed Angel's hand and tightly and stood up. I started to follow him, but he pushed me back down. We watched him anxiously and listened closely to his end of the conversation.

            "Hello? Yes. No, he's not; he's in the hospital. Me? Yes.  He did? Tomorrow? That should be okay. Thanks, you too." He scuttled back into the room and resumed his position on the floor, while we all looked at him questioningly.

            "Mimi's funeral. Apparently, Roger was made arrangements. It's tomorrow morning."

"What about Roger? He should come, but he can't." Maureen said quietly. Joanne patted her arm comfortingly.

"He'll be upset, yes, but it's better he didn't come, even if he was able to." She replied. Liz put her head on my shoulder, and somehow we all managed to drift off to sleep.

            Light drizzle covered everything as we stood solemnly around the freshly dug ground. No one cried. There is a point that you reach after a number of saddening, traumatic experiences that your grief is beyond tears. We were miles past there.  And everyone was painfully aware of the empty space that Roger would have occupied. At some point, someone would have to speak. No one seemed to want to be the first. Liz looked at me pleadingly for a few seconds, and then cleared her throat and began.

            "I didn't know Mimi for nearly as long as all of you, but I knew her enough to know how much of an amazing person she is-was. Between Mark, Roger, and I, she seemed to inspire us all. She convinced me to send some of my writing off to a magazine. She convinced us all to put our work out on the line. She was like our cheerleader, so altruistic, all the time. I never had a closer friend." Why couldn't we just say rest in peace and be done with us? Why must we stand here and torture ourselves in public when we could just as easily do it alone? I pulled Liz in close and watched the world swirl around me. Someone was speaking now; I couldn't make it out it all blurred together into a mass of dizzying, swirling images and vague sounds that I thought I didn't hear. I heard myself speaking something, something that sounded so foreign; it couldn't have been me talking. Someone, Mimi, was moving toward me, calling for me.

            "Mimi!" I sobbed, "Mimi! I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone! I was just-" but she continued to call,

            "Mark! Mark!" But it wasn't Mimi anymore; it was Roger yelling at me. Yelling to leave him and his guitar alone, that if he wanted to spend his life sulking, it was his business and I should stay out of it. But I kept hearing,

            "Mark! MARK!" No!  Leave me alone! "MARK!" My eyes snapped open. Liz was shaking me, and she had that all too familiar concerned look on her face. "Mark, everyone's gone. Are you coming?" I looked around at the empty space surrounding me. Everyone was gone. 

            "Just a second" I managed to say. She looked at me for a long time and then replied,

            "Alright, I'll meet you down the hill in a bit, okay?" I nodded and she walked off. I then realized that I was gripping the prayer card rather tightly in my hand, tight enough to live a red line across my palm. Loosening my grip, I stood before Mimi's grave as the silence made my ears ring. I inhaled deeply and the frigid air burned my lungs. 

            "Mimi." I began. "Mimi, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. After everything you did for me, all I can do is run away from the people I love and cause you to die. Roger's right. I'm an asshole. I abandoned my best friends, and let one of them die." I sighed. "I remember all our impromptu parties we had, whenever we were missing something we couldn't afford, mainly food, and we'd frolic on down to your floor. What happened to us, Meems? How did we get here?" Just standing there, I felt guilty about everything I'd ever done, to her, to Roger, to Liz, to everyone. "Goodbye, Mimi. Goodbye." I turned and went down the hill quickly, before I could change my mind. 

            Joining Liz at the bottom of the hill, she told me that everyone was heading back to the hospital to check on Roger and asked if I wanted to go. I cringed. Could I really face him after attending his girlfriend's funeral? Not to mention the fact that he'd be angry with me for not letting him go, even though he was obviously in no condition to. 

            "No. I'm…uh…going back to the loft to…uh…work on my film." I lied. She knew I was lying, but nodded and hugged me anyway. 

            "I'll see you later, then. You sure you don't want to come?" 

            "I'm sure."

            "Alright. Just don't do anything you'll regret later, pookie." Pookie? Oh no! Not pookie, anything but pookie! I thought. I wandered off down Avenue B, slightly dazed. Everything I passed reminded me of Mimi and Roger. I was always told that life isn't fair, but how come they never told me that life wasn't simple?

            Somehow, I ended up back at the loft. It was the last place I wanted to be, but in a morbid way, I was drawn to it. Entering the deserted loft, a deafening silence engulfed me and pulled me further from reality. More dazed than before, I plowed through the loft to my room and curled up on the floor near the wall, the coldest spot. Lying on the cold hardwood floor, my thoughts raced until I finally drifted into something like half-sleep.


	10. Masquerade

Disclaimer: Yes. You know what I'm going to say. I know you know. Do you know that I know that you know? Ignore this sentence. And this one too. Why are you still reading this? You should have stopped several sentences ago. In fact you probably shouldn't have read this at all, since you already knew.

A/N: Err… hi! I bet no one remembers me. It's been nearly six months since I updated this story. I apologize. This _does_ have to eventually, right? I'd better start formulating an ending or it's going to keep going and going and going… 

Chapter 10

            "We're best friends, aren't we, Roger?" The musician played a chord on his guitar. E minor.

            "Uh-huh."

            "And we'll always be, right?" C minor.

            "Uh-huh."

            "No matter what happens." F major.

            "Right, Mark. Now, put down the fucking camera and stop with all the mushy crap. You're making me sick!" Mark grinned and playfully grabbed the pick from Roger's hand.

            "And you're giving _me_ a headache." Roger's face contorted into an expression of mock anger.

            "You give me that pick back right now or I'll…" The phone rang. "I'll answer the phone!" Mark faked a look of terror and threw the pick at Roger's head.

            "No! Not the phone! Anything but that! Such a weapon of mass destruction!" Roger was thrown into fits of uncontrollable laughter as the voice on the answering machine cut through the loft.

            "Mark! Mark, are you there? Mark!"

            Mark's eyes snapped open. It wasn't the answering machine, and Roger was not present. No guitar chords cut through the dissonant silence. There was only one noise in the loft.

            "Mark! What are you doing?" Mark looked up. Silhouetted in the doorway was Liz. "Thank god you're still alive," she said with a relieved smile. _Am I?_ thought Mark, but forced a smile anyway.

            "Was I in any danger of not being?"

            "Well, not exactly," replied Liz. "I was just worried." Mark shrugged.

            "Don't be. I'm still alive." _For now,_ he thought.

            "Well…I'm glad." Silence. "The loft is a mess."

            "Yeah. It is."

            "So, do you want to clean it up at all, or wait?" Liz asked.

            "What's going on at the hospital?"

            "Nothing new. Roger was asleep when I left." Mark sighed and replied hesitantly.

            "Well, I guess we should clean, then. Clean up some of the blood." He stood up and walked toward the door. Liz grabbed his arm, and together they ventured out of the bedroom. A few steps out, Mark stopped abruptly.

            "Wait… clean up the blood? Roger's blood? We can't."

            "But Mark, didn't you already…" Liz trailed off. Filled with trepidation, Mark turned to look at her.

            "Yes. Before we took him to the hospital." Frantically, he searched his hands for anywhere that Roger's disease could have entered Mark's body. His right hand was clean; no cuts or scratches to speak of. This was not the case with his left hand, however. Across his knuckles was a small, but fairly deep cut, probably from some random mishap in camera repair. 

            "But…that doesn't mean you contracted it. It's not guaranteed, you know." Liz's voice was shaky and unconvincing. Mark sank to the floor, and Liz tried again.

            "We can go to the clinic. Tomorrow, if you want. You'll see. It's not guaranteed. You might not have even gotten blood on that part of your hand. You'll see. Good luck'll come through for you."

            "My luck sucks," retorted Mark bitterly. Liz slid down to the floor next to him and laid her hand on his arm. More silence.

            "Mark. It will be okay. I promise."

            "Whatever you say," he replied, shrugging dismissively.

            "It will." Mark shrugged again and pulled away from her. "Come on." Liz said. "Let's go somewhere."

            "I don't want to go anywhere," was Mark's sullen reply.

            "Oh, no you don't, Mark Cohen. I'm not going to let you become reclusive. You could never be Roger." A smile flickered fleetingly on Mark's chapped lips for a fraction of a second before falling victim to the cold, distant look of before.

            "I'm not going anywhere."

            "Yes, you are. You have to get out of the house."

            "I will. Eventually."

            "Come on, darling. Don't do this. Come for a walk or something. Or we can go to dinner. Or wherever." Liz stood up and grabbed Mark's sweater-clad arms, yanking him to his feet and dragging him toward the door.

            Outside, the frigid air cut through their threadbare clothing. Liz shivered, but Mark was too busy brooding to acknowledge that and hug her like a normal person would have done. Liz sighed and gave up on trying to make him show a little affection. They walked in silence for a while, their feet drumming a syncopated, chaotic rhythm on the concrete. Liz wondered if Mark knew where he was going, or if he was just walking for the hell of it. 

            "Mark, honey." No answer, only an icy silence. "Mark." Nothing. "You have to talk." A blank, empty stare and an increased pace was the response. Liz sighed again; he was hopeless. Mark continued to increase his speed, and the drumming of their feet became more chaotic. Absorbed in her thoughts of making Mark talk, Liz failed to notice that they were approaching a bridge until she started to cross it and saw the sign informing her that she was indeed crossing Williamsburg Bridge. Mark nearly broke into a run as he approached the railing. Liz took a few seconds to figure out what he was doing and then-

            "NO! MARK!" She raced to save him before it was too late. Already, he was perched precariously on the edge of the bridge, prepared to jump. As she approached, he said,

            "Liz, I have to. You've got to understand. I can't take it. I've lost so much."

            "Mark. You don't have to. Maybe you've lost a lot, but be happy with what you still have. You have a girlfriend who cares so much about you, you've got a group of friends who love you, and all of us will support you. We all knew Mimi was going to die soon, and Roger will too. We all will. We are all dying. You know that. You were the one who told me that. But you've got to hang on the life you have left. You have so much, Mark. You are by far one of the best, most talented, dedicated, intelligent people I've ever met. I can't explain to you what you would be throwing away were you to leap from this bridge, but please trust me; it's something precious and irreplaceable. I love you, Mark." For a moment, there was silence. Then, still facing the East River, Mark replied calmly,

            "Everyone has always tried to talk me out of the things I felt were the most important things in my life. Every time. This time is no different." He turned and walked back toward the road. "Don't follow me. You'll find me sooner or later."


	11. Cataclysm

Disclaimer: I still do not own the obvious characters, and it is still not in your best interest to sue me, as I still have nothing that would count for anything.

A/N: Woot! It wasn't six months between chapters! Go me! Yeah…anyway. Enjoy the chapter! And reviews will be rewarded with imaginary cookies!

            Everything in the world has a routine. Every person, every group of people, every town, city, and country, even the world itself has a routine. Any minor disruption in the standard events of the day leaves people confused and upset. And it changes them. For better or for worse, it doesn't matter. A disrupted routine will undoubtedly result in altered lives. Unless, of course, that person is already dead.

            There was a young man that afternoon that changed several lives by simply crossing the street. He was a fairly average looking man in his mid-twenties with light brown, slightly messy hair and a very scrawny body. The only thing particularly abnormal about him was the seemingly calm look on his face, which, if looked at for more than a glance, revealed itself to be intense fear and hopelessness. The world was moving fairly normally until a sudden, unexpected _thud _echoed throughout the streets. Simultaneously, a woman's scream pierced the cold, quiet air. The world stopped for a moment, and a period of nothing and everything ensued. Another scream, and the world resumed. People began to flock towards the screaming woman and the silent man.

            "What happened?" someone asked the panicked woman. Through her sobs and panicked noises, she managed to force out an answer.

            "He…he walked out. In front of me and…and…and I couldn't stop and…" The rest was incomprehensible. Comments and commands were issued from the surrounding crowds

            "Someone call 911!" Phones were pulled from pockets and the three numbers dialed.

            "Who is he?" Shrugs. No one knew.

            "Is he alive?" Someone rushed over to take his pulse. The verdict? Yes, the man was still alive. This caused a fresh wave of obligation to help to sweep through the crowd. Someone administered first aid while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. The others talked amongst themselves, speculating who the man was and why he had walked out into the middle of New York City traffic. Most of them knew why, but would not say. They stood anxiously, some leaving, and some new people joining the group until the sharp, obnoxious whine of the ambulance pulsed in their ears. The cacophony brought a sigh of relief to the gathered masses, and they went about their business. The half-dead man in the road was no longer their concern. Only a few stuck around to translate the woman's panicked story into English for the paramedics as they loaded the body into the truck. Someone offered the woman a drink and a ride home, and gradually, the stage cleared and all that was left was an eerie puddle of blood and black track marks leading up to it. Eventually, all of it would fade into the cold, cruel asphalt of the street.

            Collins knew something was wrong when he saw Liz walking towards him. Her shoulders were slumped and her tearstained face carried a fearful look. And she was alone. She looked up weakly at Collins in search of some answer. 

            "Hi, Collins. Anything new?" Collins shook his head.

            "Not really. Roger's still asleep, but he keeps muttering things like, 'Mark's an asshole.'" Liz winced. "Speaking of which, where is Mark? I thought you went to get him." Liz's head dropped.

            "I don't know where he is." She whispered. A perplexed look crossed Collins' face.

            "What do you mean?" Liz hesitated. "Come on, Liz. What happened? Wasn't he at the loft?" She nodded. "So? Where'd he go?" More hesitation, and the entire story came pouring out in the epitome of a run-on sentence.

            "I went back to the loft and Mark was sitting in the corner of his room and I think he was asleep but I'm not sure, but I woke him up and asked him if he wanted to come here or clean up the loft because of all the blood and he said clean up the blood but then we realized that we couldn't because it was Roger's infected blood and then he realized that he had already touched Roger's blood and there was a cut on his hand, so he got scared, and so did I, but I tried to convince him to get out of the house so he wouldn't become like Roger, so we went for a walk and I was so engrossed in trying to talk to him that I didn't realize where we were going until we got to the Williamsburg Bridge-"

            "Oh god…"

            "-And he was about to jump but I talked him out of it and then he walked away and told me not to follow him." She was crying now, and Collins pulled her in for a hug.

            "I'm sure he's alright. He probably just went for a walk to calm down, and he'll be back-" He was cut off by the sound of a siren outside of the emergency room doors followed by the voice of the EMT explaining the situation to the nurses on hand.

            "What happened?"

            "He walked into the middle of traffic. Suicide attempt, we think."

            "Where?"

            "Broome Street, near Williamsburg Bridge."

            "Who is he?"

            "We don't know." The nurses rolled the stretcher past Collins and Liz, and from under the splotchy sheet, they caught a glimpse of an all-too-familiar scarf, tainted with blood and dirt. As the stretcher was rolled off down the hall, Liz tried to run after it, but Collins caught her arm and held her back.

            "Let me go! It's Mark! And they don't even know who he is! Let me go! Let me go see him!"

            "They won't let you in to see him now, Liz. Come sit down. We'll inquire about in a little bit." Liz nodded submissively. Collins appeared to be the voice of reason, but in reality, he was just as distressed as the rest of them. What if Mark had gotten infected? And there were thousands of other possibilities of things that could happen. What if some of them did?

            "It's all my fault." Liz said sullenly as they made their way toward the place where Roger was imprisoned. "If I had followed him, it wouldn't have happened."

            "You don't know that. You couldn't have stopped him, and who knows what he would have done to you in that state of mind if you had disobeyed him. Mark can be violent and aggressive when he needs to be." Outside of Roger's room, they noticed as they approached, stood Joanne, Maureen, and Angel.

            "Roger finally woke up and realized were there. He yelled at us to get out." Maureen explained. "Where's Mark?" Liz looked pleadingly at Collins.

            "He's…uh…down the hall," was Collins' hesitant reply. Maureen looked confused. 

            "What's he doing there? Let's go get him." Liz flinched.

            "I don't think we can do that, Mo." Collins answered.

            "Why not?"

            "We just can't, Maureen. Let it go." Liz snapped, a little bit harsher than she meant to. Maureen pouted and shot Liz and Collins an "I want to know what happened to _my_ Marky" look. Awkward silence engulfed the pristine hallway. Collins and Angel engaged themselves in a session of whispering and nodding, and when they had finished, Collins stood up and started walking in the direction of where they had last seen Mark, asking Liz to come with him.

            Upon arriving back in the entranceway of the emergency room, Collins asked the person who looked most like she was in charge,

            "There was a young man brought in a little while ago. We think he's a friend of ours. Can we go see him?"

            "You mean that unidentified chap?" the nurse replied. "I'll check. He's probably still with the doctors. Got hit hard, that one. They say it was a suicide attempt." The tactless nurse waddled away in the direction they had seen Mark's stretcher go earlier, muttering something incomprehensible about suicidal bums and the state of the world.  Liz and Collins waited anxiously for her return, and finally, they heard the heavy footfalls of the insensitive nurse returning.

            "Yeah, he's still in there with the doctors. They're trying to get him to live, though I'm not sure why. The bum. Suicide is a sin. He's on his way to hell." Liz looked ready to attack the nurse, but Collins held her arm and muttered,

            "You're a writer. Use your words." And she did.

            "You inconsiderate, worthless, self-righteous bitch! Just because you get paid more money than us because you sit at a desk and get fatter all day and watch people with serious injuries go by does not give you the right to say that my boyfriend is on his way to hell or call him a bum. You have no idea what any of us go through.  You sit here at this fucking desk all fucking day and you are completely oblivious to the current situation. Ignorance is not bliss, asshole. Take a look around you. The world is not as fucking perfect as you seem to think, and we are not scum tainting the face of your beloved planet. Open your eyes, bitch."

            "And you'll be joining your boyfriend in the underworld," the nurse replied. Liz laughed bitterly.

            "Don't wait for me; I'll see you there." With that, Liz seized Collins' arm and stomped off in the same direction they had seen the nurse go in. They had no idea where exactly Mark was, so they stood in the hall, Liz pacing and Collins playing with the buttons on his coat. Their time perception was skewed by the anxiety, so to them, it seemed hours before the doctors finally emerged from a room towards the end of the hall. Liz rushed over to them.

            "Who is in that room? The guy who walked into traffic?" The doctors, perplexed, nodded. "He's my boyfriend. His name is Mark Cohen. Is he all right? Can I go see him? Is he going to live?" One of the doctors smiled patronizingly and said,

            "Ma'am, please, calm down. Yes, that room is the young man- Mark, you called him? - that got hit by a car. You may go see him, but it might not be in your best interest. It's not a particularly lovely sight. As for him living, we don't know yet. We give him a 50/50 chance. We'll let you know when we get some more information." Liz nodded slightly in thanks, and went as quickly as possible into Mark's room. The doctors were right; it wasn't a pretty sight. Mark lay, still unconscious, on a blindingly white-covered bed, and another sheet covered his partially mangled body. His head and arms were covered with gauze slowly turning red as the blood stained and spread through the flimsy white fabric. But he was alive. His breaths were short and ragged, but he was breathing. Liz sat down in a chair next to him and let her tears dilute the blood staining the gauze. 

            "I'll follow you this time, Mark."


End file.
